Chapter 1
Steel boots thundered down the corridors, yanking Darius from the depths of sleep. His heart ceased before his eyes even opened. The way the footfalls pounded with alarming speed carried the rhythm of midnight arrests until they stopped just outside his door.
He barely had time to push himself upright on his bed when the oak barrier exploded inward, splintering on its hinges. There, three towering silhouettes filled the doorway, their cloaks catching the firelight. The hearth danced and cowered, casting twisted shadows across masks that had become legend in Vlencia—the Crimson Guard. Spearheading the charge was Alastar.
“What’s happening?” Darius demanded. “Is this another test?”
“This isn’t about your apprenticeship, nor your graduation.”
“Then what is it?”
“I cannot share such details.” His mentor’s words came out dark and heavy. “The king has summoned you. Now come along, we mustn’t keep your father waiting.”
Silence fell over the chamber as the fire continued to crackle and weave. His eyes drifted to the other two guards flanking Alastar, their stillness betraying years of rigid discipline. He noted how their armoured hands rested on their sword hilts. One shred of resistance, and their steel would sing.
He studied their midnight intrusion with a sceptical eye. The timing, their stance, Alastar’s grim gaze—none of it seemed like protocol. The excitement of tomorrow’s official induction into the legion fell out from beneath him, leaving him with a hollowness that had no end.
Was his father scheming again? Was it too much to bear that his son picked the Crimson Guard over his duties as the Prince of Vlencia? He looked out the window behind him towards the night sky, where countless stars twinkled overhead.
The last time he was awoken like this, he and Dillian were escorted to their parent’s quarters where they found their father weeping beside their lifeless mother. The vision of him clutching her hand and kissing it profusely, praying she would rise from her cruel slumber, never left his memory.
A vicious strain of fever ran rampant that winter, claiming many thousands of lives across the kingdom. It tore through every city and village, striking down anyone with a pulse. By luck or the sky gods, he, Dillian, and their father were spared, but not without suffering a tragic loss.
Alastar shifted with impatience, the plates of his armour clinking. Darius shrugged off his warm pelts and lowered his bare feet onto the chilly flagstone. “Have you sent for Dillian, too?”
“Just hurry along, lad.”
“Why are you being so coy with me? Has someone been taken ill?” He was met with silence. “Have Elron attacked?” he asked. “Ten years of peace had to end at some point.”
More silence.
“I thought The Suffering was the—”
“It has nothing to do with your bloody apprenticeship!” Alastar snapped, his tone sharp with frustration. Who was this man standing before him? The commander never shied from a stern telling off, but this… this was unrecognisable. “Put on your clothes and follow me.”
Darius frowned, but lacked the courage to protest more. He stood and pulled on his leathery attire, which included breeches, a gorget for his neck and shoulders, and a brown cuirass. It was ghastly apparel, but it would suffice until he received his full Crimson Guard gear.
His scabbard rested on a cushioned bench, glowing by the hearth. Darius reached for his sword belt, his fingers mere inches from the worn leather when Alastar told him to leave it. “Come, we musn’t delay.”
With a last glance at his weapon, he reluctantly followed the commander through the castle, where a haunting silence met them. Boots clicked against marble and granite, the sounds bouncing off gilded pillars and vaulted ceilings. Behind closed doors, candlelight flickered beneath the frames, their warm glow dimming as they passed the servant chambers.
A dry lump caught in Darius’ throat as his neck craned backwards. Both crimson guards shadowed him closely, stepping in perfect unison. “Alastar, surely you can—”
“Quiet,” he cut him off. They turned into a corridor filled with bars of moonlight filtering through the large panes of glass. Where normally the castle breathed with life even at this hour, now it felt like a tomb.
Gone were the scurrying servant girls. Gone were the whispered gossip from alcoves and the patrolmen making their rounds. Darius’ fingers twitched, missing the familiar comfort of his sword hilt. Each step deeper into the deserted passageways only amplified the wrongness of it all.
When they entered the courtyard, a group of guards waited at the bottom of the stone steps. Their horses stamped restlessly in the darkness, their nostrils blowing white plumes. Much like the halls they’d just vacated, an unnatural stillness gripped the castle grounds.
“Have you readied the king?” Alastar asked one of them as they reached the base of the slope.
The man nodded, his face concealed behind an iron helmet. “He’s being escorted as we speak, sir. They will meet you at the rendezvous.”
“Very well. We’ll take it from here.”
The guards gave Alastar and his men the reins and melted into the shadows. Despite Darius’ best attempts to avoid asking more questions, unease compelled him otherwise. “As the Prince of this kingdom, I demand you to tell me what’s going on.”
The corners of Alastar’s mouth tightened, his eyes boring into Darius with all the warmth of an Elronian winter. “You lack the authority to request that. Now, get on your horse!”
Darius’ shoulders slumped as his command fell on deaf ears, the words ‘prince’ and ‘kingdom’ hollow echoes in the night air. Alastar’s locked gaze kept his tongue from moving any more. Reluctantly, he grabbed the leather reins and heaved himself into the saddle.
As the horse shifted beneath his weight, he gazed around the empty courtyard, his heart still clinging to a childish hope that perhaps his father would emerge from the shadows—that a rare but crooked smile would stretch across his face, declaring this was all an elaborate initiation. But the stone walls remained silent.
Metal groaned and chains clinked as Alastar and the flanking knights mounted their steeds. He raised a hand towards unseen figures stationed on the castle ramparts, and after a few heartbeats, the iron gate squeaked open.
Yawning into view were Istrille’s sleeping streets and twinkling orange lanterns. Beyond towering city walls lay an inky void that stretched into the horizon, swallowing any hint of civilisation.
Moonlight glinted off cobblestones as Alastar’s horse wove between shadowy buildings, its hooves barely making a sound. Each turn felt calculated—not the path of someone simply travelling, but of one evading detection.
Darius watched his hunched shoulders, the way his head constantly swivelled, scanning narrow passages and dark corners. Twice they backtracked without explanation, once ducking beneath a low archway so tight Darius could have reached out and touched the damp stone walls on either side.
The streets that should have been familiar now felt like a labyrinth, each twist revealing another unnamed alleyway. His grip tightened on the reins, a cold understanding seeping into his bones: this wasn’t some cruel lesson or twisted trial.
Besides a few curious head turns, they left the capital gates undetected. He glanced over his shoulder as the city’s tiered streets and white-washed buildings shrank into the darkness, their outlines blurring like ink bleeding into parchment. One by one, the scattered lantern lights winked out until Istrille’s colossal silhouette dissolved into the velvet blackness of the horizon.
They travelled for what seemed an hour when a cluster of orange dots appeared in the distance. Torches. The pinpricks soon morphed into a battalion of crimson guards.
Amongst the gathered soldiers stood his father’s unmistakable white mount, Spirit. The majestic horse was his source of pride and joy—a steed Darius had always dreamed would one day inherit. It shared his rider’s armour of intricate carvings depicting otherworldly beasts that glowed from the torches surrounding him.
Darius’ throat tightened as he met his father’s gaze. Even now, confronting him as a grown man and a graduate of the Guard, that stern face made him cower like a child.
Alastar pulled their horses to a stop. “My king, your son gave us no trouble,” he said, the slight falsehood ramped up Darius’ nerves. “Do you require anything further from me?”
Robick glanced at Darius before acknowledging his royal adviser. “I wish only to be with him for this last leg of the journey. Go forth with your men and clear the path of any unwanted travellers. The open roads are rife with trouble this time of year.”
“My lord.” Alastar inclined his head and rode to the front of the battalion.
Darius watched the departing figures shrink against the horizon, relief and anticipation churning in his gut. “Father, what’s going on?” The words spilt out as their horses started moving towards the unknown destination.
“You know what you’ve done,” Robick sighed.
“If this is about the Crimson Guard, you cannot change my mind. We’ve been through this already.”
A joyless laugh escaped his father’s lips. “I really don’t understand you, do I?”
Darius’ brows furrowed.
“It seems you lie as good as you wield a sword.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your plot to kill me!”
Darius’ throat seized over the outrageous claim. “What?”
“I know every seedy detail.”
“You can’t be serious.” He waited for one of the crimson guards to break from the grim procession and declare this a sick prank, but none did. “This has to be some joke.”
His father’s jaw tightened beneath his greying beard, the movement barely visible in the gathering dark. “You think we’re travelling under nightfall for the fun of it? What do you take me for?”
“A fool if you believe—” Out of nowhere, a backhand found Darius’ cheek. The strike nearly toppled him sideways, and it burned with pain.
“Do not insult me!”
Darius clasped his throbbing face, realisation washing over him like a wave. His father meant every word. He truly believed Darius had plotted to kill him.
“I’ll give it to you… your plan didn’t lack intricacy. The deadly tonic... the time you intended the servant girl to hand it to me... it was well put together. Do you know how strong that poison would have been? It had the potency to send ten men into the Void—the royal surgeon confirmed this. Not even our military has access to such a substance.”
“The plan… the servant girl?” Darius muttered, shaking his head. “This is lunacy. Father. Please.”
“Well, Ameliya performed her role effectively. She wore the look of a panicked goat when Alastar brought her before me. But I suppose that’s a common reaction when one’s plots are uncovered.”
“What have you done with her?”
Robick groaned. “She will face the guillotine at first light.”
“Father! You must revoke her execution at once. She’s only eighteen.” His features twisted into a pained grimace that made him appear far older than his twenty-two years. “Someone is plotting against us. This has Elron’s scent all over it!”
“It’s not Elron or King Jefor, you fool,” Robick rebuked. The silence that followed was agonising. “I knew your love for the Crimson Guard was boundless, but to murder me so you could abdicate the throne and hand down kingship responsibilities to Dillian? That, I did not see coming.”
“I swear on everything I hold dear, whoever is behind this has fed you lies! Reveal them so I can slit their throat at once!”
Robick craned his head around, the lines on his face easing. “Then I’d be left with no sons.”
Darius’ breath died in his windpipe, his veins freezing into streams of ice. The sound of his brother’s name stumbled from his lips, broken and unsteady. “D-Dillian?”
Robick wore a mask of fury. “Your denial is testing my patience. He showed me everything! Your scribes—”
“My scribes? What in the realm is this?”
“Your longhand doesn’t lie. We may be strangers to each other, but I know your scribing hand well. It’s a monstrosity. Trust that I took every measure to dispel the truth.”
Darius’ vision glazed over, unfocused on the moonlit path ahead. The rhythmic sway of his mount faded into the background, each hoof a distant thud that barely registered as he wrestled with this revelation.
Through the fog of his mind drifted images of wooden swords clashing in the great hall, of two young boys ducking behind tapestries and sprinting down corridors. He could almost hear Dillian’s breathless laughter mixing with his own.
He remembered the flushed cheeks on Alastar’s face when they knocked over yet another precious vase. He recalled maids throwing their hands up in despair at muddy footprints tracked across freshly scrubbed floors. The muffled giggling they’d shared after Father had scolded them and the way Dillian’s eyes would crinkle at the corners when they whispered confessions of first crushes.
What went so gravely wrong?
Darius’ fingers traced the leather reins as the embers of their youth continued to flicker behind his pupils. How did he not spot the signs earlier? The same hands that had helped a young Dillian climb forbidden walls, that had clasped countless sworn oaths of brotherhood, had now penned his doom.
Blood, it seemed, could turn to poison.
“Was I that bad of a father?” Robick’s words cut through his stupor.
“No,” was all he said.
“Somewhere, I must have failed you. This is as much my burden to carry as it is yours.”
Darius fell silent, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as he gazed ahead at the slithering column of torches. Neither father nor son spoke as the stars dimmed one by one, giving way to the first whispers of grey light bleeding across the eastern sky.
Remote farmsteads thinned out, replaced by endless meadows that rippled in the breeze. A dark line soon crept along the horizon, materialising into a wall of trees that stretched upwards until their uppermost branches disappeared into the low-hanging clouds.
His mount’s hooves crunched through crisp grass, and Darius’ breath misted before him—strange for Summer. Each inhale filled his lungs with a biting coldness that made him pull his cuirass tighter around him.
When Alastar and his knights came to a halt, Darius knew this was where he would meet his fate; in a desolate part of Vlencia. In some ways, it was a fitting spot to execute a disgraced prince. His stomach swirled at the thought, not from fear of dying, but from the bitter taste of injustice.
He had trained under Alastar, sacrificed his youth for the Guard, and dodged death in The Suffering. Now the knights would be his executioners, their crimson capes billowing in the pre-dawn breeze like omens of the blood soon to be spilt.
“My lord,” Alastar called out ahead, his voice an echo that rippled across the meadow. “Would you wish for one more moment with your son?”
Robick’s eyes carried an empty stare, devoid of the warmth they once held when Darius was a boy. His father’s hands trembled slightly, betraying the emotions that ravaged him inside. “No. We’ve spoken enough. Let’s get this over with already.”
The muscles in Darius’ neck tensed as he turned towards his father. His lips parted, trembling with unspoken words, whilst he searched Robick’s face for any flicker of mercy. The morning frost had settled in his father’s beard like tiny crystals, but his blue eyes were firm and unmoving. The journey concluded here—and the pain of his silence cut deeper than any sword could.
A shadow fell across Darius’ mount. Alastar. His boots flattened the dew-covered grass, each step heavy with reluctance. When their gazes met, the usual stern features had softened. “Dismount your horse and come with me, lad.”
He snapped his neck towards Robick once more. “Please… Father… I-I didn’t betray you! Dillian is behind this, not me. It’s not too late to halt this. Father!”
Alastar grabbed Darius’ forearm with his calloused hands and pulled him down from his mount with one powerful tug. “I beg you… Don’t do it. Don’t!”
“Stop making this harder than it already is, Darius,” Robick’s voice cracked like splitting ice, his shoulders rigid as he fixed his gaze on the forest looming ahead. Wind-swept grey hair whipped about his face, yet he remained motionless; a statue carved from pain. “I raised you as best I could without your mother, but I cannot overlook treason—not even from my blood.”
Alastar’s iron grip propelled Darius through the frost-laden meadow, his boots leaving deep furrows in the grass. They weaved between the crimson-cloaked figures, their hollow visors tracking his stumbling progress.
Through his blurred vision, the tree line swelled before him, their gnarled trunks bleeding into one another. Each step brought new details into focus—bark more black than brown, branches that twisted like grasping fingers, roots that upended the earth, and a canopy so dense, even the strongest sun would struggle to penetrate. He’d never ventured to this spot before, but a close-up glance told him everything he had feared.
“The Forbidden Forest,” he murmured amidst ragged breaths. No happy endings took place here. Bards only spoke of death and misadventures. The forest stood as the only natural border separating his homeland of Vlencia from the northern kingdom of Elron—a barrier more effective than any wall man could build. “Alastar. Please. Speak sense into him.”
His mentor brought them to a halt, their breaths misting before them. “Darius Rarkez, the Court of Istrille has charged you with treason. We have determined you conspired against the crown with plots to kill the king and usurp the throne for your own political gains. On behalf of King Robick and his people, you are stripped of your royal title and sentenced to indefinite exile.”
Exile? he thought, the verdict knocking the wind from him.
“If you return to Vlencia, you are to be executed on the spot and without trial. Do you acknowledge your punishment?” Alastar’s tone was cold and unfamiliar—as if speaking to a common criminal rather than the man he’d helped shape into a warrior.
“This is wrong. You’re all making a mistake.”
Alastar leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Listen, Darius. You must concede, or this will only go one other way.”
A stray tear streamed down Darius’ cheek. His heart rebelled against the unjust accusations, but something deep within—instinct—urged him to yield. He cast a glance at the forest, knowing death also lurked in its shadows, yet all he could see was Dillian’s face burning behind his eyes.
“Darius.” Alastar probed.
He craned his neck back around. Every inch of his being rejected the moment, rejected the accusation, rejected the fate being thrust upon him. The words tasted like ash, each syllable sticking to his tongue, fighting to remain unspoken. “I accept the punishment of exile.”
Alastar’s chest swelled as he drew a long breath, his shoulders rising beneath his armour in what Darius could only perceive as a relief. He turned towards Robick’s distant figure, giving a curt nod that signalled to the king his acceptance of the verdict. “For what it’s worth, I fought your corner, Darius. But the evidence was too convincing for your father.”
He shook his head, a subtle motion meant solely for Alastar’s eyes. “If he believed it, then why am I not being executed?”
“That’s a question only he knows the answer to. I suspect he chose to move quickly before word reached the earls and countesses about your betrayal. They’d have called for your immediate execution. Such is the nature of the courts.” Alastar’s lips tightened into a thin line as he fumbled with his belt, loosening the buckle that held a sword. He extended the weapon towards Darius. “Take it. This much you deserve.”
With trembling fingers, Darius accepted the scabbard, surprised by its unfamiliar weight. The craftsmanship was unlike anything he had ever touched. When he pulled the blade half-free from its sheath, intricate lines and polished steel reflected his sombre expression. A crimson jewel, set proudly in the crossguard, dazzled despite the low light of dawn.
“Ralz was a fierce warrior, as were the bearers before him. You bested him in The Suffering, and now his weapon is yours. Look after her, and she will serve you as she has many knights before you. I’m sorry we’ll never get to see your induction.”
Darius gazed up, his eyes slick with gratitude and regret. Gratitude for the warmth of his mentor; regret for the grand dreams he would never realise. All stolen by the one he thought he could trust with his life.
When he turned around, his father had vanished from sight, leaving only a pale dot on the horizon where his horse moved between the flickering lights of his escort’s torches. Tears now crisscrossed down his face as hopelessness enveloped him.
“Darius, listen closely,” Alastar glanced between him and the forest edge, passing over supplies and a waterskin heavy with liquid. “The Forbidden Forest is an unforgiving place. If the sky gods favour you, you’ll reach Elron in one piece. Once there, do not speak with anyone—not even a child. Make haste to Liri and leave Estos behind for good. Estrana is a vast continent. You will find somewhere to settle and start anew… that much I know.”
Darius didn’t want to heed his words; he wanted to return home. To the safety of Istrille and the familiar halls of the palace. But he knew that path was closed to him forever. The remaining crimson guards hovered several paces away. Any resistance shown by him would lead to a fight he could never win.
“You must leave, Darius.” Alastar cleared his throat from the cold or something much deeper. “May the gods watch over you on your journey out of Estos. I pray you find the life you rightfully deserve.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “Now go!”
Darius cast one last, teary look at the commander—the closest thing to an uncle he had. The standing knights drew their blades, metal scraping against scabbards in a clear warning.
He turned to the fortress of ancient pines and began his approach, each step like a hammer striking the final nails of his fate. His fingers danced against the leather of his new swordbelt as they routinely did when he was nervous. He was trained in the Guard to always be ready, but no training could prepare him for what lay ahead.
The chilled grass crunched beneath his boots, his shoulders sagging lower and the weight of exile pressing down upon him as the shadowy treeline loomed ever closer. Behind him stands everything he had known—in front of him, only darkness and uncertainty.
Darius freed the sword from its scabbard as the waking sunlight caught each groove for perhaps the last time. But like the warriors who wielded it before him—men who stepped forward with steel in their hands and courage in their hearts—so would he.
The Curse of Abbey Ruins
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